They say that I am growing old: I hear them tell it times untold
In language plain and bold. But I’m not growing old!
This frail old shell in which I dwell is growing old, I know full well;
But I am not the shell!
What if my hair is turning grey!
Grey hair is honourable, they say.
And though my eyesight’s growing dim,I still can see to follow Him Who sacrificed His life for me
Upon the tree of Calvary.
And who should care if time’s old plough
Has left deep furrows on my brow ?
Another house – not made by hand – awaits me in the Glory-Land.
And though I’m feeble in my walk,
And though my tongue refuse to talk, I still can watch, and wait and pray ;
And though my hearing be not keen, As in the past it may have been,
I still can hear my Saviour say, In whispers soft, “I Am The Way!”
The outer man (do all I can to lengthen out this life’s short span)
Will perish and return to dust – As everything in nature must.
The inner man, the Scriptures say, Is growing stronger every day!
Then why should I be growing old if safe within the Master’s fold ?
Ere long my soul shall fly away and leave this tenement of clay,
This robe of flesh shall drop ; But I shall rise
To meet my Saviour in the skies – And seize the everlasting prize,
And – after that – we’ll meet on streets of gold,
And prove that we’re not growing old!
Dorothy O’DowdThank Sri 🙂